Four Horses

I see their curved necks through the kitchen window sailing like swans

Photo: © David Whyte

FOUR HORSES

On Thursday the farmer
put four horses
into the cut hay-field
next to the house.

Since then the days
have been filled with the
sheen of their
brown hides
racing the fence edge.

Since then I see 
their curved necks
through the kitchen window
sailing like swans
past the pale field.

Each morning
their hooves fill my
open door
with an urgency
for something
just beyond my grasp

and I spend my whole
day in an idiot joy
writing, gardening,
and looking
for it
under every stone.

I find myself
wanting to do
something 
stupid and lovely.

I find myself
wanting to walk up
and thank
the farmer for those
dark brown horses and
see him stand
back laughing in his
grizzled and
denim wonder at my
innocence.

I find myself wanting
to run down First Street
like an eight year old
saying, "Hey!
Come and look
at the new horses
in Fossek's field!"

And I find myself
wanting to ride
into the last hours
of this summer
bareback and
happy as the hooves
of the days
that drum toward me.

I hear the whinny of
their fenced and abandoned
freedom
and feel happy
today
in the field
of my own making,

writing non-stop,
my head held high,
ranging the boundaries
of a birthright
exuberance.

   From The House of Belonging